Valentine found her a poor bedridden creature, weak, frail, and querulous. She was in a clean and moderately comfortable bed, and when she saw him her puckered face and faded eyes began to look more intelligent and attentive, and she presently remarked on his likeness to his father.
A chair was set for him, and sitting down, he showed a sovereign in his palm, and said, "I want to hear the ghost story; tell it me as it really was, and you shall have this."
A shabby book was lying on the bed.
"Her can tell it no better'n it's told here," said the daughter.
Valentine took up the book. It was the same that he knew; the blue light and the shroud appeared in it. He put the money into her hand. "No," he said; "you shall have the money beforehand. Now, then, say what you really saw."
Old Becky clutched the gold, and said, in a weak, whimpering tone,
"'Tain't often I tell it—ain't told it sin' Christmas marnin', old
Madam couldn't abide to hear on't."
"Old Madam's gone," said Valentine seriously.
"Ay, her be—her wer a saint, and sings in heaven now."
"And I want to hear it."
Thereupon the old woman roused herself a little, and with the voice and manner of one repeating a lesson, told Valentine word for word the trumpery tale in the book; how she had seen Mr. Melcombe early in the morning, as she went up to the house on washing-day, to help the servants. For "Madam," a widow already, had leave to live there till he should return. He was walking in his shroud among the cherry-trees, and he looked seriously at her. She passed, but turned instantly, and he had disappeared; he must have gone right through the crack of the door.